


A Bridge of Silver Wings

by punk_rock_yuppie



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Apologies, Briefly Implied Harry/Cho, Briefly Implied Harry/Dean, Briefly Implied Harry/Ginny, F/F, Fluff, Future Fic, HP: EWE, Humor, M/M, Open ended, Pre-Slash, making amends
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-12
Updated: 2018-02-12
Packaged: 2019-03-17 05:14:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,606
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13652154
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/punk_rock_yuppie/pseuds/punk_rock_yuppie
Summary: When he received a letter by owl a few days prior, Harry hadn’t expected to see the faintly familiar scrawl of his school-time nemesis on the pristine parchment.





	A Bridge of Silver Wings

**Author's Note:**

> i had the urge to write something where draco had really short hair and harry had long hair (bc i see draco written with long hair a lot, and i wanted something different). this is just fluffy, future fic, with apologies and the possibility for more between the boys. this fic, however, is just a one shot.
> 
> thanks to cathect for betaing. hope you all enjoy!

Harry’s first thought is, of all the inane things, _his hair is so bloody short, that can’t possibly be him_.

 

 

When he received a letter by owl a few days prior, Harry hadn’t expected to see the faintly familiar scrawl of his school-time nemesis on the pristine parchment. Harry hadn’t expected the cordial greeting, the typical pleasantries; he _definitely_ hadn’t expected the request, just before the curt farewell and ornate _‘DM’_ at the bottom. None of it was expected, for a variety of reasons. He hadn’t seen or heard from Malfoy since their eighth year ended, and that was three years in the past, now. Malfoy had kept out of the public eye, out of trouble as far as Harry could tell. Not a peep, and then—

> _Dear Potter,_
> 
> _I hope life is finding you well. I assume it is, as there’s no shortage of articles about you in the_ Prophet _, even now. I hope Weasley and Granger are doing well, also._
> 
> _Meet me at the Leaky Cauldron, this Saturday evening, say half four?_
> 
> _Sincerely,_
> 
> _—DM_

Against his better judgement, Harry sent back a response ( _alright, half four at the Leaky._ And then, though to this day he doesn’t know what possessed him to add it, _I’ll be in a red jumper_ ). He hadn’t anticipated a response, didn’t think one was necessary, but one came anyway. Harry unfolded it to reveal the handwriting yet again, this time with an even shorter message.

> _Of course you will. If you’re in a gold scarf or any sort of nonsensical paraphernalia, I won’t hesitate to leave._
> 
> _I’ll be in blue._

Not even a ‘sincerely,’ that time. Harry hadn’t minded; if anything, he found it almost soothing, comforting. The bite of Malfoy’s words, even written, were something Harry knew well. That had been that, for the time, and Harry hadn’t sent another reply. He knew that would be silly to do, so he’d left it. He tucked away the notes from Malfoy—Ron and Hermione both had a nasty habit of snooping through his mail, when the fancy struck them—and he hadn’t told a soul about his plans for Saturday.

 

 

Which is how Harry finds himself standing just inside the Leaky Cauldron, looking across the room to where a striking blond sits in a silky, midnight blue shirt. Harry knows it _has_ to be him; he recognizes the sharp line of the man’s cheekbones and the sideview of a sneer, blossoming into a grimace. The way Malfoy holds himself has changed, but not so much that Harry can’t pinpoint it. He’s still haughty and proud—so says the tension in his shoulders—but he no longer tries to occupy as much space as possible.

But his _hair_ is what catches Harry eye the most. Harry stares, slack-jawed and unabashed until someone knocks into him, at the nearly shaved look. Still bright and blond, unmarred in that regard. But it’s cropped close to his skull aside from what looks like a few locks that hang in front of his face.

Harry finally makes his way through the light crowd and hesitates only for a moment before brushing his hand against Malfoy’s arm, a greeting of sorts.

Malfoy doesn’t startle; he only turns to face Harry, then watches him with hawkish eyes as Harry takes the seat across from him. Malfoy nods curtly and raises a hand without looking away. Soon after, two pints float their way over and land swiftly on the table.

“Malfoy,” Harry finally says.

“Potter.” Malfoy nods again and raises his drink to his lips.

Harry busies himself with downing half his pint in one go. Malfoy raises a critical eyebrow but there’s something like a grin turning at the corners of his mouth. “Er,” Harry starts after a final swallow. He forces himself to set the glass aside, lest he drink _all_ of it. “Your hair—it’s, uh, different.” When Harry had last seen him, at the end of school, it had been long and swept over a shoulder in a clumsy braid. 

Malfoy raises a hand unthinkingly to his hair and skirts his fingertips over the shaved side. He hums thoughtfully. “Oh,” he answers softly. “Well, thank you.” He looks Harry over once, and a more lively grin takes over his face. “Your hair looks like a rat’s nest.”

Harry laughs and can feel his hair bouncing with the force of it. It’s longer than it’s ever been, and knotted into a messy half-bun on top of his head. Most of it can’t—or won’t—be contained, and falls around his face in loose tendrils. “It does,” Harry agrees once his laughter subsides.

“No, honestly Potter. It’s worse than it was in school.” Malfoy leans over the table and looks positively delighted. He reaches out a hand and is a breath away from brushing a stray strand from Harry’s face when he stops. He freezes and draws his hand back, a blush staining his cheeks. “Sorry.”

Harry only shrugs and reaches for his glass once more. He sips at it idly, until he figures the silence has stretched long enough. “What did you want to meet up for?”

Malfoy’s eyes snap to him from where they idly wandered. “I wanted to make amends.”

“Ah.” Harry nods. “Did you have—I dunno, a speech or something?”

Malfoy laughs softly, looking a little rueful. “Something like that,” he admits. “I’ve entirely forgotten it now, I think.”

“That’s alright. This,” he gestures to the pints, to the space between them, to the Leaky in general, “this is good, too.”

Malfoy watches him intently yet again. “Really? After all the shite I put you and your friends through, _for years_.” He says it like Harry might not remember. “After all that, a pint and insulting your hair is what it’ll take to mend bridges?”

“I mean,” Harry starts, then trails off. Then, after downing the rest of his drink and motioning to Tom for another round, he starts again. “Of course that’s not all it’ll take. But…” He looks down at his hands now that they’re devoid of something to occupy them. “In the years since the war—during the war, even, a lot of things ended up forced into perspective.”

Malfoy makes a curious noise around the lip of his own nearly-finished mug.

“We were children. Bloody hell, Malfoy, in some ways we still are. You know they wanted me to go into Auror training, before eighth year? _And_ after. I’d be the youngest, they’d said, like it was something to be proud of. Like I hadn’t spent the last seven years fighting dark wizards.” Harry shakes his head and bites his tongue to stem the rant before it can get any worse. “I turned them down, both times. And now I work in the joke shop, with George n’Ron. It’s great.”

Malfoy’s eyes are narrow but searching. Softly, he asks, “why are you telling me this?”

Harry sighs and continues. “You were a kid, too. You still are. I don’t—I don’t know what you’re up to these days, but regardless.” Harry waves away the little details. “We both did things we weren’t proud of, during the war. And I’d like to think we’ve both come a long way since then. I… Honestly, Malfoy?”

The blond sits up a little straighter and even as their drinks refill he doesn’t move to take a sip. Neither does Harry.

“I forgave you a long time ago. I’m not saying we’re about to be best mates, and I can tell you ‘Mione and Ron won’t be nearly as easy to win over.”

“What makes you think—?”

“But, _I_ forgave you, already.” Harry breezes by Malfoy’s anxious indignance gracefully. “You don’t need to make amends with me. Although I suppose now would be a good time to apologize for sixth year.”

Malfoy’s hand, the same one that came to toy with his hair at the start of their evening, flits now to the collar of his silk button-up. He traces a line over the fabric, and Harry watches the slender finger move until Malfoy seems to realize what’s happening. His hand snaps back into his lap, out of Harry’s line of sight.

Harry opens his mouth to continue, to finally explain himself like he’s imagined doing a time or few before, but Malfoy clears his throat.

“Don’t,” he tells Harry quietly. “I forgave you, too. Severus told me.”

Harry’s eyebrows shoot up in surprise.

The grin returns to Malfoy’s lips somewhat, still a bit bittersweet. “He created the spell, after all. He was terribly insulting, if it helps.” Malfoy coughs and starts in a deeper voice, “ _That insufferable child probably didn’t understand what the spell even_ did.” Malfoy sits back in his chair and his expression shifts to something more somber. “God, he really was a git, wasn’t he?”

“So were you,” Harry points out, tone light-hearted.

Malfoy rolls his eyes but the darkness looming over him dissipates. When he smiles at Harry this time, it’s softer. “Sod off.” He hisses across the table without heat.

He finally goes for his drink and Harry does the same, and the new silence isn’t tense. Or, maybe it is, but not the same way as before. It’s still a little awkward and thick, but Harry feels less suffocated and more comforted. It’s not unlike—Harry chokes a bit when he thinks this—not unlike awkward silences with Cho, or Ginny, or Dean.

Harry pushes his drink aside after only a sip or two. “I’m glad you owled me, Malfoy.”

“I am, too.” Malfoy’s cheeks are lightly flushed, and Harry wonders how often he really drinks. Or if it’s the heat of the Leaky getting to him, or maybe something else. “I honestly expected a howler in return.”

Harry snorts. “God, no.” They both laugh then, shaking their heads together. “I’d,” Harry swallows his nerves and they drop into his stomach. “I’d like to maybe do this again.” His voice ticks up the slightest note at the end.

Malfoy nods. “Yes, I’d like that as well.” He smiles at Harry again while sipping his drink. “You’ve got my address, obviously. Owl me any time.” There’s a stiff politeness in his words, but a hopefulness there, too.  

“Yeah, alright.”

Malfoy finishes his second pint first, and Harry pushes his away with a finality that catches Tom’s attention. The mugs disappear and tall glasses of water take their place.

“What are you up to these days?” Harry asks while toying with the condensation on the outside of his cup.

“Not much of anything,” Malfoy admits. “Spending time with mother in the countryside. Studiously avoiding father’s letters. Paying reparations and such.” He tilts his head back to drink at his water, and Harry’s gaze is drawn to his neck, the long lines of it flexing. “Boring as all shit, the lot of it.”

Harry laughs. “You could always come by the joke shop sometime. After you talk with Ron and Hermione, of course.”

Malfoy looks uncomfortable with the idea, but also resigned. “Should I owl them as well?”

“You could. Or we could do lunch. Might go over a bit better.”

“I’ll think on it,” Malfoy says after a beat. “I’ll let you know.”

The third silence is shorter, and the lightest of the night so far. Around them, The Leaky has gotten louder, to the point that Malfoy casts a gentle notice-me-not around them to dull the sounds and stave off the attention. They finish off their waters and after sharing a quick look, they stand at the same time.

Harry leaves a few galleons on the table even as Malfoy scowls at the coins. Harry nudges him away from the table when it becomes clear the other man might try and make a fuss about it. “It’s what friends do,” Harry tells him as they weave their way out of the Leaky Cauldron. The notice-me-not charm clings to them and keeps them shrouded by the crowd, even as they spill onto the street outside the pub.

Malfoy huffs all the same. “Fine, but I’m getting the next round. Whenever that is,” he adds the last part in a rush.

“You’re free to owl me too,” Harry tells him. “Don’t sit around and wait, yeah? I’m a twat when it comes to setting up lunch dates, Hermione’ll tell you. Just, send me a place and time and I’ll show up.”

Malfoy rolls his eyes again. But he nods, too. “Very well.”

They each shift from foot to foot, awkwardly. Harry looks at Malfoy and catches his gaze, then looks away, then looks back and does it again.

“This is ridiculous,” Malfoy declares after a couple minutes. They’ve shuffled off to a side alley, to stay out of the way of the main door to the pub. “I’m going to go home, I’ll owl you sometime for us to,” he falters. “To hang out, again.”

Harry bites back a chuckle at Malfoy’s stunted phrasing. “Yeah, alright. Sounds great.” Then, on a whim, he thrusts out his hand. It startles Malfoy and the blond stares at Harry a bit like he’s grown a second head. “C’mon.” Harry urges with a shake of his head. “To, er. Putting the past behind us, and new beginnings, and, that.”

Malfoy hesitates for a moment, then slides his own hand to grip Harry’s. “And that,” he agrees. The shake is brief and firm, and Malfoy takes his hand back a bit quick. “Till next time, Potter.”

“Till next time, _Draco_.” Harry replies, also on a whim. He gets a derisive snort in reply, and then watches as Malfoy— _Draco_ turns on the spot, his longer strands of air twisting with him as he disapparates. He waits a moment, as long as it takes for Draco’s notice-me-not to fade, then finally does the same. He turns on the spot and lands in the walkway of Grimmauld Place with a tell-tale pop.

“Harry?” Hermione’s voice filters from the kitchen. “Harry, is that you?”

“S’me,” Harry replies as he makes his way toward her. She stands at the stove with her hair pulled back into an enormous ponytail. Her dark skin has a sheen of sweat and her eyebrows are drawn together in concentration. Harry watches her fondly for a moment, and thinks back to her standing over a cauldron at Hogwarts.

Ron claps a hand to Harry’s shoulder and pulls him from his thoughts. “Hey mate, where you been? We stopped by for movie night and you weren’t around.”

Harry grins. “Sorry, plans I had ran a bit later than anticipated.”

“What were you up to?” Hermione asks, her voice tinny from leaning over the pot and stirring. There’s a less-than-promising line of smoke rising from the pot, and Harry looks over to Ron. With a fondly exasperated grin, Ron is already reaching for one of the takeout menus tacked to the fridge. “Oh, god, this is just going all wrong,” Hermione finally admits with a frown.

“Sorry, Harry, what did you say you were doing tonight?” Ron asks as he taps at the menu with the tip of his wand, placing their usual order.

Harry just smiles, a little more to himself than anything. He thinks back to the evening he’s had, how it was good—weird, but good. He evidently takes so long to answer, Ron and Hermione both turn to look at him. Harry coughs awkwardly, stands a little straighter. He finally manages to answer, just as Hermione concedes and vanishes the mess in the pot while Ron tucks away the takeout menu.

Harry shrugs. “Just catching up with a friend.”


End file.
